


He'll bleed you 'til you're just bone and skin

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Feels, Alpha Derek, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Dark Derek, Dark Stiles, Derek is a Bad Alpha, Domestic Violence, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Season/Series 03B, Self-Harm, This ain't a love story kids, Unhappy Ending, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's moments when Stiles feels the dull pull of the bruises on his hips, moments when he can't sleep on his stomach because the throbbing ache does nothing for a good night's sleep, it's those moments that make him feel worthless.</p><p>Makes him hate Derek with a passion that burns brighter than anything else he feels.</p><p>Or the one where Derek doesn't know his strength, but Stiles knows he deserves it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He'll bleed you 'til you're just bone and skin

**Author's Note:**

> This is so damn dark, I don't even know where it came from. I've just been reading a lot of dead Allison fics and they've been giving me so many feels.

Derek fucks like he's aching to claw his way out of his skin and bury himself, body and soul, in Stiles.

He likes Stiles on his hands and knees, ass in the air.  He likes to wrap a thick hand around Stiles' neck, pressing his face deep into the mattress so he just can't breathe.  He likes to grip Stiles hips as he drives mercilessly into him, leaving deep, dark bruises in his wake.  He likes to mount him, claim him, suck him, bite him with dull human teeth, leaving crescent shaped bruises.

There's no romance in Derek Hale, never has been, and Stiles knows there never will be.

And with an anchor like anger, it's only to be expected.

Scott's anchor has always been Allison, even from before he knew what an anchor was.

Derek's anchor will never be Stiles, there's too much hate in his human side to afford Stiles that privilege.  Hate for Kate, hate for fire, and hate for himself.  It's this self hatred that leaves bruises on Stiles' pale skin.  Derek never allows himself anything nice.

But there are moments, ones Stiles grapples after, struggling to retain hold of.  Moments when Derek's with what remains of the pack, sitting in the sun, soaking up the easy banter, and his eyes crinkle.  Stiles knows not to disturb him in those moments because they disappear all to easily.  Stiles doesn't get to have Derek's happiness, but he is allowed his pain.

Pain he is all so willing to transfer onto Stiles.

Sometimes Stiles stands naked in front of the full length mirror in his room, studying with a clinical air, the patterns Derek's hands paint over his body.  The purples, oranges, greens.  Sometimes Derek stares at them, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but it never leaves his mouth.  And Stiles knows.  Whatever Derek's using Stiles for to regain in himself, admitting to it would ruin everything he's achieving by digging his talons too hard into slow healing skin.

It's the Alpha in him.

Derek was always meant to be a beta, the honour of Alpha destined for Laura, but now Derek's something he's not meant to be, and maybe that's why Stiles stays.

Stiles knows he's in an abusive relationship, he knows because his father is the Sheriff, and when the Sheriff indulges in a stiff drink he likes to talk about all the monsters that lurk in Beacon Hills. 

The human monsters. 

The unemployed man who spends all his wife's money gambling.  The woman whose elderly father has bruises all over his body inconsistent with falls.  The child whose pet dog cowers whenever a human comes near.

Humans are the only creatures that take pleasure in hurting others.  Animals find it necessary for survival.  And so does Derek.  It's how he functions, how he exists, he needs to hurt Stiles because if he doesn't, he'll starve.

He's the Alpha, and the pack needs him.  He can't starve, so Stiles just bends over and takes it.  Small sacrifices.  And after the nogitsune, it's all he deserves.

His penance is deserving.

Stiles would fall to his knees and beg forgiveness, but he knows how useless praying is, it didn't help his mother, it didn't help Erica or Boyd, and it sure as hell didn't help Allison.  Instead Stiles falls to his knees for other reasons.  Reasons that choke him and fuck his mouth until his jaw aches and almost dislocates from its socket.  It's the first time he's ever gone to the hospital for the injuries Derek's laid upon him, and it's only because his father points it out over breakfast the next morning.

"You've got some bruising on your jaw there, son."

Stiles rolls his eyes jovially, if there's anything the supernatural has taught him, is how to lie to his father.  "Blame Scott.  He gets a bit too enthusiastic during Call of Duty nights."

The Sheriff laughs.  "Make sure you tell him to hone down the werewolf strength, you bruise like a peach."

That afternoon Stiles drives down to Redding, refusing to go to Beacon Hills Memorial.  Melissa would raise a fuss, scolding Stiles for rough housing with Scott when he knows about his strength.  Melissa's still one of the only people he can't really lie to, she just reminds him too much of his mother.

In Redding, Stiles tells the doctor it was a stray knee during lacrosse that did the deed.  Stiles is eighteen so they don't contact his father.  The doctor probes around his jaw, declaring everything intact, but he still prescribes Stiles Vicodin for the pain.  After, Stiles pays the bill in cash he took from Derek's safe.  He doesn't feel guilty for stealing.  Derek knows he does it and says nothing.

He avoids Derek for a week until the bruising fades to a soft cream.  He keeps the Vicodin in a baggie, tucked away in the box of condoms in his bedside table.  Derek never uses them anyway.  And as far as the Sheriff knows, Stiles is still a virgin, and he'd like to keep it that way, he doesn't want his father shooting Derek up with wolfsbane bullets.

That's a privilege solely reserved for Stiles, one he might just collect someday.

Stiles finds the gun in Allison's room. 

Chris swept through, the day of the funeral, claiming only a few things, giving the remains of his daughter's life to a fucking thrift store.  Stiles can still remember how it felt to feel anger throbbing in his veins when he saw a freshman wearing Allison's teal sweater with little black hearts all over it.  He dug his nails into his palms and the little crescent marks took days to fade. 

Stiles sneaks into the house, picking the locks on the door.  Chris is gone, moved to France, taking a distraught Isaac with him, leaving Scott alone with Kira to wallow in the mire.  Stiles doesn't help him, he can't even help himself.

He pulls open the vent.  Stiles watched the first season of Breaking Bad with Allison a lifetime ago, she smiled at the time, explaining a vent is actually a very effective hiding place so long as it concealed something heavy.

Duct taped to the side of the aluminum is a Glock 9mm with three modified wolfsbane clips.  It must've been a gift from Kate; the gun is covered in a thick layer of dust.

He tucks it into his pants after checking the safety, Stiles isn't stupid.

He keeps the gun in his lacrosse bag, wrapped up in his stale jersey.  He stopped showing up for practice a long time ago.

That night Derek climbs into his window, unannounced as always, wanting a quick fuck.  He quickly sniffs out the scent of wolfsbane so when Stiles fists his hand around his cock, he can't get an erection.  He asks Stiles why his room smells, and Stiles lies saying he inherited some things from Allison.

"What kind of things?"  Derek asks, pulling up his pants.

Stiles lies back in his bed, naked, and folds his arms behind his head.  "Some books, some clothes."

After the nogitsune left him, Stiles could claim he's the maharajah of India and his heart wouldn't skip a beat.  Nothing makes it skip anymore.  Not Derek, not fear, maybe that's why Derek stretches the boundaries, hurting Stiles; his heartbeat no longer gives away his body's distress.

Derek raises a brow.  "Clothes?"

"An impressive collection of plaid."  Stiles shrugs.

Derek tugs his henley on.  "Women's shirts?"

"Gender stereotyping doesn't suit you, Derek."  Stiles studies his ceiling.  "On that note, your inability to get it up when presented with a young, nubile body must say something about your manhood."  Stiles snidely says.

Derek disappears out the window without a word.  Good riddance.

Stiles bugs off school and goes over to the loft the next day, and Derek fucks him from behind with his hands braced against the broad, cloudy window.  Stiles never comes, and Derek never notices.  He drives home straight after and takes a shower, the water pressure in the loft sucks.

Derek won't ever be able to fuck the ghosts out of Stiles, but he sure has the ability to make him drop.   Stiles cocoons himself in blankets hoping to stave away the feeling that the werewolf's arms should be wrapped around him, holding him tight.  He doesn't deserve that.

Stiles wards away the drop in other ways.

He drives down the Interstate 5 to Redding, and walks into the club wearing jeans that make his ass pop and a shirt with a collar so low it could be Danny's.

He dances with a redhead, making sure to whisper compliments in her ear as he presses up behind her.  _God, you're fucking gorgeous, you know that, right?  You smell so beautiful, like a spring morning.  I want to eat you out._

She drags him by his hand into the girl's washroom, and into a stall, snapping the lock closed behind her.  Stiles drops to his knees and lifts up her skirt, pulling down her pretty pink panties.  Turns out she's a natural blonde.

After he eats her out until she's sobbing, she tells him he can fuck her, producing a condom from her purse.  Stiles rolls it on like he did the banana in health class, he's never actually worn one before.  Derek doesn't bottom, and condoms just aren't a thing they do. 

It's only belatedly when he's fucking her does he realize he just lost his virginity in the traditional sense.  He's sure that Derek fucking his ass with little prep a week after the nogitsune left him, would not count in a heteronormative world.  He always thought he would lose his virginity to Lydia Martin.  Stiles tangles a hand into the girl's bottle red curls, running them through his fingers as he presses her up against the stall wall, hiding her face from view.  Close enough.

When he gets back home, he finds Derek sitting in his desk chair.  His nose flares when Stiles enters his bedroom, barely sparing the Alpha a glance.

"Where were you?"

"Down in Redding."

"Why?"

"Went to a club."

"With Scott?"

Stiles laughs.  "What's with the interrogation?"

"You smell like Daisy."

"Oh?"

"Laura loved that perfume."

"I know, you told me."

"You smell like it.  And a girl."

"I know."

"Why?"

"Because I fucked a girl who was wearing it."  Stiles stares straight into Derek's hazel eyes unblinking.  Which is how Stiles gets front row seats to the beginnings of tears, making Derek's eyes appear brighter, glowing in the florescence of his room light.  Derek nods his head stiffly, before climbing back out Stiles' window.  Fucking weird.

Stiles picks up the lamp from his desk, and throws it against the wall with a dull thud, but the anger does nothing for him.  He strides over to his bedside table and picks up the box of condoms, rummaging around for the baggie of Vicodin.  He knocks two tablets into his palm, swallowing them dry, before settling down on his bed to sleep.

He wakes up half an hour later, nauseous, running to the bathroom he vomits up his dinner and the whiskey he had at the club.  Fuck.  The whiskey.  The alcohol had worn off enough that he was safe to drive, but not enough that it was safe to take an acetaminophen.  Stiles isn't suicidal.  But that small mistake on his part could've cost him much. 

He gets up from where he'd fallen to the ground, flushes the toilet and mechanically brushes his teeth in the sink, making sure to erase the taste of sick from his mouth with mouthwash.

His father's on a night shift so he doesn't have to remain quite as he walks back to his room.  He takes the baggie with five pills still remaining and flushes them down the toilet before he can change his mind.

Derek comes over the next night, and Stiles laughs at him.

"You thought we were exclusive?  I need to get my cock wet too, Derek.  I don't always like it up the ass."

"I would, for you."

Stiles raises a brow.  "And how would the Alpha feel about that?  Getting mounted like a little bitch."

"I could ride you."

"No, Derek you won't, because even then you'll still be vulnerable.  Controlled by my thrusts and how well you are prepped."

"I want it to be good for you too.  I want to make love with you."

Stiles stares at him blankly.

Derek runs his hand through his hair.  "I don't want to hurt you anymore, Stiles, I love you.  I want exclusivity with you."

Stiles smiles, making sure it reaches his eyes.  When Derek sweeps him up into a hug, Stiles throws his arms around Derek's neck.  It's only when his face is tucked away  in Derek's shoulder that he lets his mouth curl into a little snarl.

Derek performs the ritual on a Tuesday evening, transferring the power of the Alpha over to Scott.  The boy born to be a true Alpha.

Stiles watches as Derek's red eyes fade to a soft golden, and he turns to him with a smile Stiles has never seen grace his face before.  He looks peaceful, and he stares wondrously at Stiles with eyes full of what can only be love.

Stiles hands tighten around the gun.

He's never wanted to hurt Derek more.


End file.
